sdmn one sh~i~ts

Held Together /wroetobehz

words: 1945
warnings: panic attack i guess?? idk it's just a bit sad lmfao⚠️

Harry's lying in his bed on his stomach, forehead pressed against his pillow, and it's nearly midday. The house is uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn't know if he likes it or not.

The boys had gone out without him today. He'd nearly burst into tears on Ethan's shoulder at just the prospect of putting his shoes on, and so they'd decided that he might be in need of a little more rest. Ethan had waited for him to get back into his bed and then had tucked him in, a kiss pressed to his forehead.

He's not alone though. Harry being on his own when he's stressed is usually a bad idea. Simon is still clinging onto his last few days of 'sick leave'. They don't have too much on today- only a few hours of meetings- so they can survive missing the two of them.

Simon has spent the day on the sofa, curled up in front of the television playing a new game of his. Harry was trying to get some more rest, convinced he could sleep off his anxiety, at least until Ethan or Tobi get home to take over the task of keeping him from hyperventilating. Doing it by himself is hard.

He doesn't even feel that bad today- he's had it a lot worse- but it still feels impossible to do the simplest of things. Even realising that he's uncomfortable, making the decision to roll over, and then actually carrying out the task, took him about ten minutes. He'd ended up with pins and needles anyway.

Nothing even set him off, no big realisation or confrontation, just a bad nights sleep and a busy morning. That's apparently all it took to leave him with teary eyes in the hallway, staring at his shoes, fingers refusing to uncurl, to allow him to untie his laces.

It's only when he realises that he's lying in the dark, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that his face is stinging and his chest is wound up in a knot of anxiety, that he decides that he shouldn't be alone any more. That would be bad.

A lot of the boys seem to take an issue with admitting when they feel shitty, preferring to keep it to themselves until they get found out. Harry is the complete opposite. He seeks help immediately, well, as soon as he thinks that he can't cope on his own any longer. And right now, he can't cope on his own.

He grabs a blanket, wrapping it around his middle so that his organs don't fall out, and he sprints through to the living room- truly the fastest that his body has moved all day. Simon's head whips around at the sound of thundering feet. "Hazza?" He asks, alarmed, dropping his controller at once.

Harry has forgotten all of his words, his mind suddenly reeling with all of the things that he could possibly say and possibly ask for. All he can do is whine, high in the back of his throat, and stare up at Simon in desperation. He swears he didn't feel this bad ten seconds ago. Maybe it was all that running that tipped him over the edge.

Simon gets up and circles the sofa, arms outstretched in case Harry wants someone to hold onto him, letting him know that he's there if needed. It can be difficult to gauge what Harry needs when he's stressed out because he switches so rapidly and violently. With so many thoughts swirling around his head, every immediate desire is replaced by one just as fleeting- it leaves him spinning and dizzy and gaping at his friend.

"Haz, talk to me. Tell me what you need." Simon demands, but his voice stays soft. Harry falls into it, taking a few stumbling steps forward because Simon is warm and safe and he needs- he needs-

"Help." Harry grasps at and clings to the only word that appears clear, sat there in the forefront of his brain. "Help." His heart clenches in his chest, a painful squeeze. He pinches his skin just as hard to offset the pain, the tips of his fingers turning white.